


uh-oh (spaghetti o's)

by Who Shot AR (akerwis)



Category: 10 Things I Hate About You (1999)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Unfinished
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-15
Updated: 2008-06-15
Packaged: 2017-10-06 05:17:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akerwis/pseuds/Who%20Shot%20AR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a conciliatory bowl of Spaghetti O's on the table when he walks into the kitchen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	uh-oh (spaghetti o's)

**Author's Note:**

> I wouldn't mind finishing this someday, because I like the tone of it thus far, but I don't know what I'd do with it.

There is a conciliatory bowl of Spaghetti O's on the table when he walks into the kitchen. The master chef _behind_ the steaming bowl of tomato paste and thiamine mononitrate, however, is nowhere to be seen.

It is, of course, conciliatory simply by virtue of the fact that it exists at all. Kat thinks Spaghetti O's are disgusting and will gladly come up with gobbledygook reasons as to _why_, most of them pseudo-scientific and ending in the suffix _-ate_. It's at that point that it's generally best to tune her out, because casually pointing out that, as an English major, her qualifications for judging the relative fitness of chemicals to be eaten is not her forte, doesn't go over as well--though it is more fun.

In any case, a bowl of Spaghetti O's awaits, peace offering and breakfast all in one bowl. Despite his girlfriend's old reputation, Patrick has yet to have reason to believe that she'd use the pasta as a vehicle for something more nefarious--strychnine, for instance--and doesn't wait for the food to cool. His stomach is rumbling and all those processed ingredients smell like a godsend. Sitting down at the side-of-the-road find of a table in a folding chair (entirely necessary for completing the whole 'penniless, hard-working college student' _look_, of course), he digs in.

While eating, he considers that he doesn't actually know what this is _for_. Sure, maybe she'll appear and claim that it's "just because," but that's not really Kat's style. She reads too much poetry for that--everything's got a meaning on some level for her.

Sure enough, she does come into the kitchen before long, long hair tousled in that brilliantly sexy way of hers. (Maybe she's been out on the balcony of his apartment--she does like it out there, it's just about the only spot in the tiny place she could've squirreled herself away in, unseen. And besides, he keeps finding copies of books by Ann Sexton and the like left haphazardly behind the blinds next to the sliding door out there. It's not that she's trying to _hide_ how much she likes sitting out there and reading feminist poetry, of course. She needs time to herself, he gets it.) He gets one of those little smiles that she saves especially for him, and she sits in the chair across him.

"How is it?"

He raises an eyebrow, a few curls falling in his face. "Just the way I like my breakfast. Out to kill me in the end."

"If you're not going to read the labels on your food, you get everything that's coming to you." Her dark eyes have narrowed, her brow's furrowed, but that smile's still there, and he smiles back.

"So when're you going to tell me the special occasion?" Patrick asks, indicating his bowl with the spoon. "It's not every day I get Spaghetti O's served fresh from the can by the most beautiful woman in the world."

"Oh, shut up," go her defenses, the eyerolls and sarcastic tone of voice--but it all feels like a pale copy of her usual playing along. Something beneath is wavering, evident in the way she bites down on her lower lip, just for a moment. "Why do I need a reason?"

"The last time you made me Spaghetti O's, you dented my car. The time before, we had an argument over something stupid. The time before _that_\--"

"Okay, okay, I get it." She sighs, propping her chin on her hand and staring at a point off somewhere to the left of him. "I don't just make you food for fun."

"Not that I'm complaining," he points out around a mouthful, "but there usually is a reason."

She's quiet then for a bit, and Patrick takes the time to admire her lovely face in the light of the summer midmorning.


End file.
